“Pike’s boys,” Lawrence grunted.

“Quade told you we’d killed your comrades back in Greenbush, yes?” Hawkwood said. “Told you it was a chance to get even?”

Hawkwood moved the knife down to the trooper’s throat and applied pressure to the blade, piercing the skin. Blood welled beneath the stiletto’s point. “Y-yes.”

“Got them to do his dirty work,” Lawrence said coldly. “Scheming bugger.”

In the moonlight, the trooper’s face reflected a sickly pallor. In contrast, his jowls hadn’t been near a razor for several days. The smell coming from him suggested he hadn’t washed for a while, either, though the odour rising from the nearby pit could have had something to do with that.

Hawkwood sat back on his haunches before leaning in again.

“The boats; how long before they depart?”

The trooper looked confused at the change of subject. “Boats? I don’t—”

Hawkwood pressed in with the knife. “Last chance.”

Opening his mouth as if he were about to reply, the trooper paused. A new expression stole across his face. Suddenly, before Hawkwood and Lawrence’s startled gaze, his eyes rolled back into his skull and a dribble of saliva emerged out from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin. His head lifted momentarily and then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he lolled forward; as his jaw fell open, his body gave a small shudder, sagged, and then went still.

“Good God!” Lawrence exclaimed, stepping back quickly.

Hawkwood withdrew the knife and searched for the trooper’s pulse with his fingertips. “He’s gone.”

He stared at the trooper’s face for several seconds and then rose to his feet.

“I’ve seen this before,” Lawrence murmured, gazing down at the dead man. “In Spain. A young subaltern got kicked by a cavalry horse. Went down as if pole-axed. Took several minutes to come around. Swore he was fine, finished his duties and then dropped dead an hour later. Surgeon said the blow had caused some sort of blockage in the brain that took a while to reveal itself. Looks like hitting this one with the musket did more damage than we thought.” Lawrence gnawed the inside of his lip. “Just when the conversation was getting interesting, too, damn it.”

“What about the driver?” Hawkwood asked.

Lawrence shook his head. “Neck’s broken.”

Hawkwood was about to ask Lawrence if the break was due to the fall or judicious use of the manacles but decided there wasn’t much point. It wasn’t as if it would make any difference to their current situation.

“Best we were on our way, before they discover we’ve gone. The shots will have carried.”

Lawrence looked back towards the woods and the track that had brought them to the clearing. “I doubt that way’s feasible. Any suggestions?”

“Continue north, same as before.”

“Steal a boat?”

“Not likely. I’ve had enough of bloody boats.”